


Temporary Immortal

by korasami



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, technically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:36:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4973479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korasami/pseuds/korasami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For the first time, he regrets killing himself. He looks into Alexander's ocean-view eyes, crinkled with mirth, and Elizabeth's eyes, which resemble almonds in both their shape and color, and he longs to be with them."</p>
<p>**</p>
<p>After John Laurens dies, he lives another twenty years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temporary Immortal

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this since August, and I'm content with how it's turned out. Though it follows the timeline of actual history, some things will make a lot more sense if you read it with the musical's universe in mind.
> 
> Also on my [Tumblr](http://www.betseyschuylers.tumblr.com/tagged/my-fic/).

There is _nothing_ between John Laurens and death. It frightens him a great deal that the thought frightens him so little.

Not even the kind words of his friends and family, heard not thirty minutes before his revelation, have had the capability to penetrate his depression. Nor does the thought of seeing his father or his family again. Or his _daughter for the first time_. Imagery of warm-copper eyes is not enough this time to suppress his thoughts. The letter of undeterred and unfettered affection tucked with care into his shirt pocket only serves to make matters worse. Everything makes matters worse, in honesty, for it reminds John both of how little truth those closest to him know in regard to his character and how much they all seem to love him with alleged unconditionality regardless. To recall his past with them is akin to rediscovering little trinkets of memorabilia in the attic, which hold no definite meaning other than to serve as placeholders for sepia-toned memories John could _swear_ once held color for him. Ultimately, he is reminded of his selfish feelings of wanting to abandon it all.

John had not realized until he thinks this, but he is crying - the tears he does not feel masked by the thick, humid air which blankets his face. The steady patter of horse’s hooves accompanies his heavy heartbeat, though that the vibrations do not make a perfect alignment sets an odd feeling within John. He retains a vague awareness of his men’s presence behind and around him. They rely on him much more than he relies on himself.

They like him much more than he likes himself, which is certainly an odd concept if Laurens did not notice this fallacy every living moment.

Perhaps when John runs out of waking moments he will cease to be so depressive. That is one outcome of death that he might welcome with open arms.

That he is to die today is not really much of a question. He woke up the morning of, knowing, and shall _go to sleep_ at the end of the day, embracing. Though the question is more of a _how_ , of a _where_ , of a _when_ , than it is a _will_. He _will_ die today. He must.

The _why_ is simple, and oughtn’t be examined in depth or else John might hate himself more. The _why_ has nothing to do with himself and everything to do with those around him. There is his father, who wants him to do something productive and money-making. There is his country, who stands in the way of his goals of manumission. There is his daughter, whom he shall have to face sooner or later and he would much rather it be from behind a tombstone if he can have a say in the matter. Above all else is Alexander, who loves him and would want nothing more for John to abandon his desires to live a cozy life in politics.

John never wanted to be a politician. He _never_ wanted to be a politician’s wife - and he never wanted to be a politician’s side-whore. And he would be damned if he had to sacrifice his chance of honor to be further subjected to an incessant demand of secretive side-whoring that was the stark opposite of _virtù_. Not that John was particularly adverse to the actual act of being a side-whore, and perhaps he should even miss it upon dying. But he much preferred the whoring to the side-whoring, and ever since two Decembers ago, the latter role was all he was fit to fulfill.

But there is a sort of strange and comforting sense of decency in admitting your sins, John decides, and there’s no time like the eve of your pseudo suicide to indulge in penance. Though even if he were to seek God’s forgiveness, if such a deity existed in such a grey world, the prospects of reaching a golden gate were slim. While there is no explicit sin in spending hours on end daydreaming of a man’s touch, John had done much more to be ashamed of. Hell perhaps was not the unbearable pit it was rumored to be; yet, John thinks, not much can be worse than the dark affliction of feelings he experiences on a constant basis.

Perhaps the depression alone is his Hell already begun. Perhaps this is the Devil’s sign that John is already under his command. But in that case, wouldn’t he feel less empty and more filled with evil? He either has had no experience with living a normal life or living with the Devil.

At this thought, John smiles, bitter. Most of his actions from the past while can be described with such an epithet, or some synonym thereof. This is a _why_ whose answer John does not understand, and if he is right about his life’s pending status, he shan’t ever discover it. So he rides on.

However, riding had never served as a distraction from unwanted thoughts for John before, and he fails to see a cause for that to stop now. Every shadow around him looks suspicious, as if a regular was waiting for him just behind the nearest bush. Delicate moonlight shrouds the posse of Continentals, and while John knows it must be in the early hours of morning he is unable to place the time precisely. Having gone without sleep for the past many hours has definitely left a detrimental wound in his perceptive abilities, with the added bonus of a high jitter of anxiety.

From an unimportant character he receives an order to move out - or was it move back? - and with similar unimportance, John replies with an acknowledgement of comprehension. Confusion ensues as John attempts to rally his troops, but John is too filled with adrenaline and terror at what is to come that he does not pay their concerns any mind. That they too are not overeager at the thought of death never once crosses his mind, though neither does the prospect of them feeling the opposite. In the moment of autonomy all John is thinking about revolves around his upcoming freedom from the tyranny of his mind.

* * *

Nothing bad, it seems, can ever be forgotten. Likewise, nothing wanted can be remembered in its fullest. Since John had wanted a bad event, he realized the second afterwards, the memory of his death feels stuck between the two worlds. Though he knows what happened, he knows he has gone and can never return, he cannot recall the specifics nor does he feel any more than a mere spectator.

Well. He _is_ a spectator, now. Before him unfolds a scene of battle: his own men - his old men - fighting in vain to defeat the British. There are no bodies on the ground besides his own, which one man notices and points to in horror. John is taken aback by the man’s reaction, and at the momentary reactions of the rest of his command. While a moment of silence cannot be spared during a time of war, there is a notably different air to their fighting. Another man falls, and John can _see_ the spirit within him leave the mortal world. No spector rises from the body as John suspects he himself must have, only a shimmer of light and whispers of a never-lived life. One by one, his men begin to fall back, clutching the wounds they sport.

For the first time since his death, John feels an emotion. Guilt.

Age on the battlefield never mattered much to anyone when numbers were low and morale was even less. Any able-bodied man was welcome to fight so long as they could shoot straight - and even then, there were far too many exceptions. Still, a sort of youth was visible under the grime of dirt and blood and worry lines. Twenty-five at the most, John speculates, though they have had more death in their lives than one ought to at seventy. Desire for glory no longer remain in the poor soldiers, and John wishes he could have said the same. These men would never have been put in danger if John had not risked their lives for the sake of losing his own.

He looks at the corpse of the other man, then to his own. He has committed two murders today.

* * *

Movement as a specter was quite alike movement as a living being, except there was no real concept of time passed. Walking seems to be the easiest method of transportation for the dead, though John has yet to meet anyone else in a similar predicament to him, so the data collection is rather limited. He had initially attempted to run, though everything had become sluggish and tiring in almost an instant. Floating, too, was an unsuccessful dabble into trial and error; while John _did_ deem it possible, it was far too unstable at the present time. If the state of - whatever John was in - remained for awhile longer he would give it a second go. John wishes he had someone else to talk to regarding his situation.

Which, he reasons, is why he is trying to walk from South Carolina to New York. Because he is more optimistic in death, maybe, and because - well, he is still here, right? Perhaps he is not actually dead. Perhaps, even in death, Alexander can see him.

Three days have passed, or, John has seen the sun rise and set three times. No sign of sleepiness has made itself known as of yet, but being dead, John figures that is a given. Neither has he become hungry or thirsty. Location-wise, John is completely lost; he knows not where he is nor where he is going, but what is maybe his instincts tell him he should keep walking in the direction he is. Never stopping, never looking back.

Death, and the infinite amount of time which comes with it, gives John a long time to reflect. One immediate benefit of being deceased is that his mind is clear, or clearer, than it had ever been in life. The constant presence of cancerous depression had been hacked away with a knife, and is now filled with something not _pleasant_ , but is a definite improvement to the emotional embodiment of nothing John kept as a constant parasite inside his soul. This new feeling is not quite melancholy but John cannot think of any other way to describe it. At least it is _feeling_.

Shifting scenery is not something John takes notice of throughout his trip, but his eye’s attention is caught by a familiar landscape. With a start, he realizes he has made it to New York, for the faces he knew so well are at last before him.

Something John had failed to notice on his journey was color. What was once dulled through his mind’s infection now became bright again; death was apparently his instant cure for mental colorblindness. Or maybe, John thinks as he starts to run, _Alexander_ is the cure. All the world is a fog because time goes slower when he runs now, and he sees his friend through a tunnel of distortion, moving as he ought to move, as John always saw him move. _Dammit_ , John thinks, because he ought to be by Alexander’s side by now. If the limitations placed on death could be explained, John would be very grateful indeed.

Frustrated, he stops running. Alexander is already further away, which is a pain. While John can easily catch up with Alexander’s short-legged pace any day, it is General Washington with whom he has to meet; Alexander himself struggles to keep up with the set pace while the two men converse.

A few moments later, they stop. They are in front of a fairly nice house, which John assumes belongs to Alexander. Washington says something indistinguishable from John’s distance and nods, then shakes Alexander’s hand and begins strolling away. Alexander watches for a moment, a faint smile on his lips, then turns to enter the house. John follows, only steps behind.

Braced for disappointment but still holding on to the tiniest of delusion, John begins to speak.

“Alexander?”

Except it is not his voice.

“Yes?” Alexander yells, except he looks in the wrong direction, and John feels the dread, the guilt, the regret, all settle in.

“Oh, goodness! You really need to get into the habit of announcing yourself,” a woman John assumes is Elizabeth admonishes, and as she enters the front room carrying a small newborn child, John wishes he could cry.

“Come now, Betsey. Who else would you expect arriving on our doorstep? King George, surely?”

Elizabeth laughs, and her laugh is beautiful. Full of life. “You might be arrogant, but you’re no king.”

John wants to comment on that, and then on Alexander’s offended retort, but no sound escapes his lips. He wants to say, “that’s more of a compliment than anything,” or, “don’t say such things about your wife, Alexander, even if she finds it amusing,” and he wants to be there to laugh right along with the couple.

For the first time, he _regrets_ killing himself. He looks into Alexander’s ocean-view eyes, crinkled with mirth, and Elizabeth’s eyes, which resemble almonds in both their shape and color, and he longs to be with them. He sees the humble house they’ve made for themselves, without John, and he sees how he could have called it home. In a millisecond, a vision of an alternate timeline flashes through his mind. Startled, stupefied, he shakes his head to will away what might have been.

“Have you gotten any letters while I was away?” Alexander asks, and his voice hints at an underlying urgency.

“Awaiting your response from Colonel Laurens?” Elizabeth asks. Alexander nods, slightly abashed, and John’s stomach sinks. “Nothing from him, I’m afraid, dear. There are a few envelopes which were delivered in the hour, addressed from Lafayette, a Mr. Mabie, and my father—oh,” Elizabeth starts, her cheeks giving way to a slight blush, “Angelica sends her love.”

_As do I_ , John thinks, and while he mouths the words he cannot release them. Damn the side effect of being dead, or whatever this curse may be. Hell would be better than this, watching his friend live life, and Lord knows John would be better off being tortured by the Devil than be tortured by Alexander’s face when he hears of John’s fate. Alexander _will_ know, of course he’ll know, that John wanted to die. And if John knows him as he does, Alexander will blame it all on himself.

If it were possible to inflict physical pain onto a corporeal spirit, John thinks he ought to do his worst. The only person more susceptible to rash behavior under negativity than himself was Alexander. Alexander, who has expressed his dangerous, pessimistic life views to John on multiple occasions. Part of him always wished that when Alexander had met Elizabeth, he would have felt less affection towards John and therefore less pain when he ultimately died in battle - whenever that may have been.

John had been so selfish, and unthinking, and determined to let his present woes cloud his judgement for the future. How many lives might he have changed if he had given up on his devastating suicide mission? How many lives are now enslaved or lost to time now that John is no more than a memory, somehow existing between the planes of the living and the dead?

A tug on John’s foot pulls him out of his panic, and he looks around to see nobody - Alexander and Elizabeth seem to have left. Down at the floor, however, is the baby Elizabeth had been holding earlier.

John crouches down. The baby is small, smaller than John recalls babies being, though he hasn’t much experience to be fair. He has big green eyes and very sparse curly-chestnut hair, and John remembers his name to be Philip. John waves, though he is certain that Philip cannot see him; and Philip waves back.

Complete shock floods John, and he falls back onto his bottom. Motioning wildly without speech to aid him most definitely makes him look like an idiot, but it sends Philip into a fit of giggles. With flailing hands, the baby claws at a loose button on John’s worn out uniform, causing it to fall with a small _clack_ to the floor. Philip, curious, picks it up with his smooth, chubby hands. For a brief moment, John marvels at how small they are.

“Philip?” Elizabeth’s voice carries from the next room over, causing the baby to squeal again. “There you are! I can’t believe I put you down like that, good heavens.”

She enters with Alexander close behind, her hands full of a white cloth.

“I can get him,” Alexander offers, and bends down to pick Philip up; his face is right next to John’s, their noses almost touching. “There’s a good boy. Mother’s got a present for you!”

Clapping his hands, Philip drops the button onto his stomach. Curious, Alexander picks it up.

“What’s this?” he asks, and John freezes. Questions filled his mind beyond the already-formed shock of Philip’s ability to see him. That button should not exist in the physical plane. Either John was becoming more alive, or Alexander was becoming more dead - or something between the two, as if Philip was a mandatory intermediary between the spirit world and the land of the living.

“What’s what, dear?” Elizabeth asks, coming closer to the two. John stands, making sure not to touch either adult.

“Well, it’s a button.”

Elizabeth frowns. “A button?”

Alexander nods. “It’s one from a Continental’s uniform. I would figure it’s mine, but mine’s locked upstairs, and I fail to see how…” he trails off, looking off into space \- or what he must think is space. Gazing directly at John must be a coincidence.

Alexander shrugs, and pockets the button. Philip whines, but neither parent shows any interest. Instead, Alexander holds Philip in the air before him while Elizabeth sizes him up to whatever she has been holding. They are talking to each other, to Philip, and all John can think is that in this moment he is nothing more than a button in Alexander’s pocket.

* * *

Days pass, weeks pass. John is not certain, in reality. Or not reality. He is not certain in the non-world he lives in.

Living with the Hamiltons as an uninvited shadow has a mystifying effect on him; he stops keeping track of days gone by after the first few nights of watching them sleep. Which is not creepy, he tells himself, because he knows Alexander had done the same to him when he was alive, and he’s taken to reading through most nights anyway so it isn’t like he stares at them intently for the hours on end. Plus, he takes special care to leave the room when they get intimate, out of discomfort more than a respect of decency if John is to be honest. It isn’t that John is disgusted by their passion, nor is it that he is a jealous ex-lover. If it is immoral to desire to be a part of their romantic or sexual lives, than John will work his hardest to annihilate such feelings; but that Alexander is able to seemingly share his love without John’s explicit consent one way or the other makes John get a sense of being out of place when it is obvious what Alexander and Elizabeth have planned for the evening.

Those are the nights which John spends playing with Philip, whom John finds to be adorable in every possible way. Throughout the weeks he notices that Philip is not the only living being to notice him; thin stray cats on the streets will rub, purring, against his ankles; a street orphan with bright eyes framed by an emaciated grin asked him for change on the street once, and John smiled pityingly then gave him all the little he had; most recently, a fragile and ill-looking old woman took one wide-mouth gape at him before shouting “ _nefas_! _nefas_!”. The only similarity between them all, John concludes with a heavy heart, is that they are all likely candidates for a soon death.

He looks at Philip sometimes, and wonders how long the little boy has left. Days, months, years? John has yet to figure out his connection with the dead, with the dying.

John wonders if anyone he had seen in the while before his death had been a spirit. John wonders if there is anyone else out there like him; he wonders if they exist on a separate plane, or if they are unable to mutually exist and John’s death allowed them to move on. He hopes the latter is the case. He hopes that suicide is not the criteria for living in this in-between. He hopes, with all his heart, that Philip is not the one to replace him. He hopes for Alexander’s sake.

Lately, Alexander has been busy. Elizabeth has been reading his letters, as per his request, and John is quite worried that she will read of his death. John reads over her shoulder when he can, and learns much of the ongoing world. A month or so had passed since his arrival is as much as he gathers, and still no word of his demise.

Every day, like clockwork, Alexander asks Elizabeth if there are any letters for him. A usual exchange will go something like this:

“Eliza!”

“Yes?”

“How has your day been?”

“No, my love, there are no letters from your Laurens.”

Here, Alexander will sigh loudly, dramatically. “Are you positive?”

“Mhmm. I’m starting to think this John Laurens fellow is an entirely made up character.”

“ _Made-up_? Are you implying I have an imaginary best friend?”

“How else do you expect me to believe you _have_ friends?”

_Et cetera_ , _et cetera_.

Sometimes, John wishes he were a figment of Alexander’s mind, so he wouldn’t have to break his heart.

He is playing with Philip when Alexander gets home from whatever it is he does. Oddly, Elizabeth is not there to greet him. John looks up, and is startled to see Alexander looking straight back at him.

“John?” he asks, stunned. John, too, is stunned, but for a widely different reason: if Alexander can see him, Alexander is as good as dead.

(There was an obituary in the newspaper Elizabeth was reading one morning for the elderly woman who had seen John a few weeks previous. Nothing before had made John so upset over being right.)

“Alexander,” Elizabeth said slowly, walking into the entrance hallway where they often loiter. “I’m afraid word of Laurens has come in. You might,” she pauses, looking carefully at Philip and then back into Alexander’s eyes, “You might wish to sit down.”

Confusion settles in Alexander’s eyes. “But - John - ”

“Yes,” Elizabeth says, and her voice is heavy, and John _knows_. “John Laurens.”

“He’s right - ” Alexander stutters, gesturing at the frozen John, before he realizes that Elizabeth cannot see him.

“He’s dead.”

A gurgling from Philip is all the sound in the room, in the world. John doesn’t move, he just searches Alexander’s face for any sign of _anything_ \- and Alexander, quite literally, looks the role of a dead man.

They lock eyes, and somehow John dies inside.

“Alexander…” Elizabeth whispers, but Alexander is still completely focused on John, and John wishes he could disappear. Wishes he could tear his eyes away from Alexander’s galaxy-glazed ones, a million worlds away - and suddenly, _he is_.

* * *

John has yet to return to the Hamilton house since learning how to teleport. His first attempt, several days ago, lands him in a distant South Carolinian field. He had wandered for hours in search of a landmark just to be certain - but the atmosphere was a familiar one, and sure enough, he was but a few miles south of his childhood home. He has visited Mepkin, hoping to find someone, but no luck. A conversation overheard between slaves tells him the whereabouts of all his family members, and he is somewhat relieved when none could see him.

He also learns that news of his death has yet to travel to his father.

Thinking of the impact his death has, or will have, on his friends and family drives him to regret his actions more than he could possibly say.

He wanders to avoid the feelings of helplessness. He wanders to avoid memories of the feels sinking back into his mind. He wanders to forget Alexander’s eyes.

To nobody’s surprise, least of all his own, he ends up back in New York. Not the city, no, he believes he’s somewhere upstate. There’s snowfall around him and it’s more slush than anything else and while it’s beautiful, he can’t help but think of how cold Alexander must feel - while John feels cold for an entirely different reason. 

But at least it’s quiet. No sane human would venture out into the woods in this weather - and at least he has the requited attention of the small number of animals who dare venture out into the cold, as long as they last.

Above all, John refuses to think about how Alexander could see him. He refuses to think about how much time Alexander - and Philip, whom he has grown to love -  has left. Instead, he questions whether his father would be able to see him - and knows in an instant that he wouldn’t. Though he knows it is no compliment or insult either way, he can’t help but feel a convoluted sense of pride at Alexander’s impending death with John’s death as a catalyst; he hates himself for thinking this but it’s somewhat justifying and reassuring that Alexander would take his own life because of John’s permanent absence.

If spirits could vomit, John would have done so at his thoughts. As it were, he can do nothing.

Tired of the world, he makes his way back to York City by foot. Upon arrival he notices a small cat shivering, slowly creeping in a shadow. John holds out his hand to pet the cat, and it rubs its head happily against his palm. The cat meows, and the meow is weak and uncertain and it breaks John’s heart into a thousand shards. Minutes later, unable to think about the fate of the helpless animal, he rolls some leaves together as some sort of shelter for the cat, but knows it’s all in vain.

As he walks, he sees a vaguely familiar face. It takes several moments, but he remembers eventually: the orphan boy whom he gave a money pouch to all those weeks ago. The boy is eating a loaf of bread with another child, much younger in age, and they are smiling together. With the intention of making small talk with the pair in mind, John makes his way towards them. A tap is not enough to garner the orphan’s attention, nor two, nor three. Then a firm grip of the boy’s shoulders tells John all he needs to know: the boy cannot see him. The boy is no longer going to die.

Mouth wide enough to catch a ball, John stumbles back. Gears of understanding clicked inside his brain. Maybe it wasn’t _the_ dying were able to see him - maybe it was those who would die without some interference? Perhaps - without his own interference?

A lightning bolt of revelation hit John, overwhelming his senses completely. Maybe _this_ is his reason for being here, on Earth. Saving lives which ought to be, or at least, have the potential to be, protected from death.

Without John noticing, the children dropped a small chunk of the bread and left. Moments later, John picks up the bread and wanders the general area where he had seen that poor cat. It takes several minutes of wondering if the cat was still alive before John spots it at long last, hidden under some dead branches. The poor cat’s ribs show as it shivers. Stretching a careful hand out to pet the cat is the least John feels he can do, and he is surprised at the willingness the creature has to press against his skin. Quickly he takes the bread out and feeds it to them; within mere moments, the bread is entirely consumed.

John cups the cat in his hands. It is still daytime, so he figures Alexander is off doing whatever work he does. Slow steps carry John to the door of the Hamiltons for the first time in several weeks at best. But then the door is closed, and he cannot seem to open doors, so he must wait the hours before Alexander returns.

Dark comes, and Alexander does not. It isn’t until Elizabeth opens the door and exits into the cold night that John gains entry. Apparently Elizabeth has incorporated strolls under the stars into her evening routine sometime during John’s absence. She fails to notice him.

The whole of the house seems silent. As he makes his way towards Philip’s room he finds himself petting the shivering cat, who has since began purring. When he reaches Philip’s room he is relieved to see him lying on the floor; he is less relieved to see Alexander playing with him. Bracing himself for the worst, he enters.

Philip catches sight of him immediately. Alexander does not. John waves at the former, who waves back. Seeing his son’s gesture, Alexander turns towards John. John holds his posture still, but there is no need.

“What is it, Philip?” Alexander asks, and John is both relieved and disappointed. Quick as a rabbit, John makes the hand-off - and he senses that the moment he lets go of the cat, the cat can no longer see him. However, Alexander can see the cat. “Where on Earth did that come from?”

* * *

Rachel, after much heated debate, becomes the cat’s name. Her very presence seem to lift the spirits of the Hamilton; Alexander goes back to work, Philip has another companion, and Elizabeth has much less to worry about.

Elizabeth, John thinks, is truly a goddess. He spends more time at her side than he does Alexander’s, though why he’s more drawn to someone he never met in life over his once-lover astounds him to no end. Maybe it is that she does not remind him of his life which causes his affection - regardless, he learns a great deal reading over her shoulder, listening to her private musings, having conversations with friends outside the house. Distinguishing her from other women of her class is her simple disposition and casual demeanor, traits quite refreshing to a person raised around the worst sort of aristocrats such as John.

At present she is having a conversation with Mrs. Washington. Typically John is not one to find any particular merit in wives tales, but the intelligent babble the two women engage in can be interesting at times. Now, however, he is more uncomfortable than anything; they are discussing their love lives.

For the sake of decency John is ignoring what they say, but the door is closed and there is nothing he can do to get out of the room. He had been Washington’s aid for a considerable while, and he does _not_ wish to know the particulars of how he treats his wife in bed - he cannot say the same for Elizabeth, who is very much involved in the topic.

“And what about your Alexander?” Mrs. Washington asks, and with a guilty mind, John picks his head off the floor. Elizabeth laughs, dainty as always, and crosses her legs at the thighs.

“I suppose it’s only fair for me to retaliate,” she replies; though despite her coyish words she looks less hesitant than her tone might imply. “Though I am unsure if you really want to hear what I can tell.”

Mrs. Washington raises an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

John moves to sit onto an unoccupied chair; in doing so, he is able to see Elizabeth’s wry smile before she replies: “It isn’t becoming of me to make another woman jealous.”

And if _that_ is not the sort of quality gossip John enjoys overhearing, than he is not sure what is.

“Well, you knew Alex long before I met him,” Elizabeth begins, “and I assume you’re familiar with the tales of his randy youth?” After seeing Mrs. Washington’s polite nod, Elizabeth carries on. “Well, I don’t want to be indecent, nor do I endorse any sort of premarital engagement _of course_ \- ”

“Of course,” Mrs. Washington agrees, voice dry and telling.

“But I must say, his early dabbles into female anatomy have certainly paid off.”

The conversation went off from there, and John would have been lying to say he didn’t listen to every word for word. If anything, he wishes he were able to contribute to the risqué storytelling - but perhaps in the setting of less notable company, as the presence of General Washington’s wife might be a bit overwhelming were he in Elizabeth’s shoes. 

But then after Elizabeth has delved into the details of Alexander’s - her words, not John’s - “natural assets”, the conversation switches back to General Washington and John is not saved until Alexander returns to the house several hours later. When he does, when Mrs. Washington sees him, she gives him a look that makes both John and Alexander - and likely Elizabeth - quite uncomfortable.

* * *

Alexander’s birthday is the eleventh of January. Nothing important of note happens, except John gets to see his best friend smile a genuine smile for the first time in a long time. However, it is the only birthday which John is unable to be present either in the flesh or through pen and paper in the half-decade they knew each other. It is the only birthday Alexander has _ever_ had in which John is not out in the world somewhere, living, and the empty gaze Alexander reserves for the few moments Elizabeth’s attention is elsewhere tells John that this fact has not escaped Alexander’s mind.

* * *

February approaches, and John has been dead for almost half a year. It’s a somber reality, one that John cannot comprehend to the fullest. With every day that goes by, there is an increasing sense of horror within him regarding the action and inaction which lead to his quasi-suicide. Selfishness and pride fail to scrape the surface of his previous mentality, a reality of which John finds terrifying; that, if given a second chance at life, John would make the choice to die once more despite seeing the devastated reactions of his closest friends and family multiplies that terror tenfold.

He tells himself that the reason for his mindset is that he has nobody to talk to regarding his depressive state - though he is positive that his muteness is a direct result or punishment of the deed in and of itself. 

Some days, his post-death depression is worse than others. At least he has Philip to lighten his mood, though that it has been six months and the baby still has a heartbeat gives John much anxiety over the overdue arrival of the reaper. There are no clear rules on his ability to sense an upcoming death within a person, so for all John knows, Philip is dying in ten minutes or ten years. For all he knows, Philip is a death-catalyst, or acts a permanent link between the two words. Or otherwise is in some sort of constant artificial state of almost dying; a placeholder on the waiting queue to the Underworld. Whatever the case, John is grateful for the company, however vain that may sound.

At the present, the Hamiltons are eating a family dinner. That John can neither join in on the conversation nor actually eat anything on the table does not make the moment less meaningful; Philip, at least, can see him, and they are playing a game of spoon keep-away.

Elizabeth notices this with a charming smile. “Philip, sweetie,” she says, holding back a laugh, “Who is it that you always play with?”

Philip giggles, and, with strangely strong fingers, pulls a button from John’s coat. “Button!”

Eyes widening, Alexander puts down his silverware. Elizabeth, too, is startled. John realizes that the boy has just given his first word.

“Button!” Philip repeats. He is clearly full of excitement.

Alexander leans forward and carefully pries the button from Philip’s fat fingers, inspecting it thoroughly. The object is not foreign to him. John has a brief flashback of the time before his death, when identical buttons were being held in Alexander’s smooth palm, though under a slightly different circumstance. Unfortunately for their uniforms, the two men once had a knack for ripping each other’s buttons off.

John tries to forget this as Alexander pockets the button. Elizabeth is too excited about Philip’s first words to notice, and soon Alexander himself joins in the fray. John sits where he is, tapping his fingers on the wooden table, watching the light in Alexander’s eyes. They are, as always, blue.

* * *

There comes a time when John realizes he would much rather be alive than dead. Days when abolition comes up in scholarly debate; days when Philip goes through another milestone of aging; days where Alexander and Elizabeth stay up ‘til four in the morning doing nothing but talking. The little times in life which a living John might very much appreciate being included in, and a dead John rather pines for an invitation to.

This is not one of those times.

As far as mornings go, this one is just shy of average. Elizabeth wakes up early as usual; she gets Philip ready for the day as usual; she curls up and reads a chapter from her current novel as usual. Not until she opens the morning paper as usual does John realize the abnormality of the day, that there is a reason which he hasn’t seen Alexander since saying goodbye to his sleeping figure as Elizabeth left the bedroom, that Elizabeth’s distant eyes hold more than just drowsiness from last night’s late night.

Of the few days of the year John has dreaded being dead through, February the twenty-seventh was not one of them. It should have been.

The clock in the atrium is busy  announcing noon’s arrival when Alexander finally leaves his room, unkempt and swell-eyed. No “good morning” or even “good afternoon” leaves his lips, which are chapped, and he fails to make eye contact with Elizabeth over the lunch she sets ten minutes later. This does not deter her from attempting conversation; Alexander, however, keeps up a vigilant silence. Finally, after fifteen minutes of Alexander absently rolling peas across his plate, Elizabeth is able to break through his vow of muteness.

“Would you like to talk about him?”

The question lingers in the air like hanging laundry in the winter - cold, rained-on, and likely frozen in places, not something an owner forgets but something they neglect to bring inside out of an indescribable inability to do so. Alexander’s eyes become the melting icicles which shroud the article in early spring, and Elizabeth’s are the honey-warm sun attempting to further along the process.

(John is the flower beneath which has died of frostbite.)

Alexander, ever the stubborn child, says nothing for several long moments, pouting the whole while. When he speaks, his face is heavy and his voice cracks.

“No,” he says at first, then, voice solemn, “Why?”

Looking deep into Alexander, Elizabeth shrugs. “Because.”

“Because isn’t an answer,” Alexander replies sullenly, but John can read the teasing undertones. “Because I love him.”

Elizabeth nods. “That’s fair,” she concedes, “that’s fair enough.”

Alexander nods, and looks down at his plate. Elizabeth doesn’t shift her gaze.

“Did you use to love him?” She asks. Alexander raises his head again. His eyes are fierce, though nothing even remotely close to the fire they have once held.

“But - of course.”

* * *

Life goes on and on for the Hamiltons. For John, there is a certain unwavering stillness in death. John hates it.

There are times when he longs for the adrenaline rush of the blood on the battlefield, or the heart-pounding exhilaration of illegal indecency between the sheets. Both these things, alongside a million other sensations, some of which John had never even experienced in life, are missed with such profane passion that John wonders if he truly _is_ dead after all.

Philip had turned one in the recent weeks, but John had not been near the scene at the time. He didn’t wish to see confirmation that Philip was closer to death. He still doesn’t, but that will not stop him from giving all his love to the boy. Philip’s existence reminds John of his own child, his daughter Frances, whom he has never met; sometimes, holding a make-believe toy above Philip’s head, he wonders how she is doing. An orphan girl, not too many years older than Philip, abandoned by her father, her mother having been stolen at far too young an age.

Rachel the cat runs against Philip’s outstretched hand, and John remembers with a jolt why he never mentioned Frances to Alexander. Alexander would be very disappointed in John for not doing _something_ to help his child. Still, something tells John that he oughtn’t. That he cannot.

_Some things_ , a little voice in the back of John’s mind says, _are not meant to be meddled with_.

_But_ , John replies to his thoughts, _some things are meant to be fixed_.

John sees a dead black bird while walking with Elizabeth, and takes it as an omen.

* * *

He never visits Frances. Not once in the twenty years he has left on Earth.

* * *

To John, Elizabeth is Eliza now. She’s Betsey to Alexander; but then again, to Eliza, he’s Alex.

(Alexander was once Alex to John as well, but no more. John has betrayed Alexander. He is no longer entitled to such a level of intimacy.)

Most of the time, John wishes he could have known Eliza in life. He figures she would have liked him well enough, and he knows _he_ likes her, more than enough. That alone is strange to admit, for having strong feelings for the wife of one’s former lover whom one has never met is not conventional. But John cannot help it; he was always one to fall in love with ease, and while this is not quite romantic love as he has known in the past, he can sense the progression is bound to continue if not stopped. Alexander, too, was one prone to sharing love, so John does not think he would be too disappointed.

John’s lack of sexual attraction to Eliza definitely does not hurt whatever prospective feelings Alexander might have had regarding the situation - even then, John is convinced Alexander likely would have encouraged such a union, if he is being honest. Though it took quite a while to admit to himself, John has long since accepted the fact that he was definitely lacking in the female-procreation department when it came to actual enthusiasm in the act. With Alexander, and those before Alexander, the reluctant and guilty-pleasure of sodomy was the most euphoric of anything else he had ever experienced; with Martha, only once, he never felt anything beyond slightly-more-than-platonic love and sexual repulsion.

He would be lying if he says he no longer avoids the Hamilton master bedroom during nights of passion. An increase in their _frequency_ plays little weight in this. John attributes his voyeuristic tendencies to that of his being dead—he is only twenty-seven, or twenty-eight, depending on whether or not one ages after death—and he excuses them by telling himself it isn’t anything he hasn’t already seen. His inability to work up his libido also contributes to his lack of shame. This lack of arousal doesn’t come as much of a surprise, all things considering, but that John hasn’t felt the desire to pleasure himself in over half a year does seem odd when he reflects on it. And it’s not for lack of trying: he certainly has.

Well. He _is_ dead.

John smiles down to the grass at his feet. Next to him, oblivious to him, is Eliza. She is on her normal nighttime walk through the surrounding neighborhood. While one might suspect an attractive young woman to fear wandering the streets of the city, Eliza is the exception; from how John observes the noticeable spring in her step, how she breathes in deeply when a wave of chill passes through the trees, it is clear she loves this more than anything.

Though his feet move autonomously, John closes his eyes to the world as a memory sinks in.

* * *

Valley Forge would have been a million times more hard if it weren’t for Alexander and Lafayette. Quite literally his anchors, John isn’t sure he would have made it through the winter without their presence at his side. For one, it seemed, Hamilton was prone to seasonal depression; John himself is prone to year-round depression, so for several months out of the year they had an almost uncomfortably intimate level of mutual self-loathing and esteems of personal insignificance, which indeed led to several days of staying in their bunk together, doing nothing out of sheer lack of will; and _yes_ , it was during those cold months that John had finally let go of his reservations, built up by two years of abstinence from sex as well as a promise to both his father and his Father never to even _think_ about sodomy ever again, and allowed himself and Alexander the consummation of their long-strung courtship.

Lying in bed naked feels counterproductive while there is frost clinging to John’s breath. Despite this, John relishes in it. The private moments he has with Alexander which aren’t spent crying or making love are more seldom than he would prefer to admit. The pair have but a thin blanket to shield them from the harsh weather (though Alexander, with his sensitive-to-cold Carribean skin, has the added benefit of having John lying on top of him) and they know this scenario is much less practical than they want to voice.

“John?” Alexander says. John nuzzles his face deeper into the crevice between Alexander’s neck and shoulder. Alexander repeats John’s name.

“Yes?” John whispers, not moving. Moving is the last thing he wanted to do.

John feels Alexander take a deep breath. “I—” he seems to have lost his voice. “Never mind.”

“Never mind, what?” John asks.

“Not important,” Alexander tells him.

Shifting his weight to look into Alexander’s eyes, John smiles. “Anything you say is important to me,” he says. “You are important to me.”

Hesitation is still very visible in Alexander’s expression. “I, that is, you. You are also important to me.”

John’s grin is infinite. “I quite like you, Alex.”

The shaky smile Alexander returns is not representative of a lack of mutual feelings, but an expression that anything he says to John will be an understatement.

“I like you a lot, too.”

They are both lying. The concept of simply liking the other is too foreign, to plebeian, for either man to comprehend. John tells Alexander this, hours later when the latter is in a hysterical depressive state over his perceived lack of self-worth, and he means it: not even _love_ contains enough passion to properly describe the connection between them. It is the subtle difference between loving someone and being their soulmate, and while the line is a thin one, crossing it is the most terrifying realization one can have.

* * *

Somewhere in his thoughts, Eliza has fallen back a few paces. John doesn’t notice until—

“Sir?”

A hand on his shoulder.

John’s heart stops.

“Sorry, sir—” Elizabeth Hamilton says, and she lowers her voice. “Sorry to bother you. I just saw you standing there—please, will you walk with me?”

John looks fearfully into her eyes, which, surprisingly, reflect the fear back at him. He opens his mouth to ask her something, anything, but as always no sound comes. Instead he nods, and holds out a shaking arm for her to grab. She does. They walk.

“My name’s Elizabeth. I wouldn’t have bothered you, except it’s late,” John smiles at her rapid-fire speech; he sees how Alexander would enjoy talking with her, “—and dark, and normally that doesn’t bother me, except I swear I heard someone behind me; I think there’s a man following me.”

John stiffens, and turns his head—he scans the scene behind him—and while he spots nothing out of sorts, he trusts the instinct of Eliza— _Eliza, who_ sees _him_ —and puts all his senses on high. Not to have Eliza think him impolite, he gestures at his throat, and creates an X movement over it.

“Ooh,” Eliza says. “I see.”

John gives her a weak smile, then grabs her hand. Eliza is startled, but as John lays it palm up, she begins to understand.

_J-O-H-N._

He spells out the name slowly, in all capitals.

“John?” Eliza asks, smiling. “That’s a lovely name.”

John points at her.

_Y-O-U-T-O-O._

Eliza laughs, her paranoia from earlier seemingly subsided. “Why, thank you. I’m rather fond of it. What’s your family name?”

John hesitates, and Eliza notices.

_B-A-L-L_ is what he finally tells her, because she knows John Laurens is dead; at any rate, his late mother’s maiden name was still a respected one, and one which would provide more anonymity.

“Do I know that name?” Eliza muses. “I believe so. One of the Carolinas, correct?”

John nods, a little impressed. He traces the letter _S_ into her palm.

“My surname—my husband’s surname—is Hamilton,” Eliza tells him, “though he’s not—it’s not a notable family name. Schuyler, though, is my maiden name. I assume you’ve heard of Philip Schuyler? He is my father.”

John nods.

“Though I take it you’re in the Continental Army? My husband served under George Washington for quite some time. Alexander Hamilton, do you know of him?”

A smile finds it way onto John’s face. He can’t help it. It’s more than enough to tell Eliza that does indeed know of Alexander.

“I take that as a yes!” Eliza laughs. “Right, well I was hoping you would be kind enough to walk me home. Perhaps you can have dinner with Alexander and I?”

And yes, John really ought to have suspected this. And worse, he wants to. He sees Eliza’s genuine smile, and he really, really wants to. Accept Eliza’s offer and go home with her. To Alexander.

But there would be no Alexander, because there would be no John.

He shakes his head. Eliza’s smile falters.

“Oh,” is all she can say. John grimaces. Hurting her feelings is the last thing he desires.

_T-H-A-N-K-S_ , he spells. _S-O-R-R-Y_.

Eliza’s returning grin is bittersweet. “Very well, John. You will at least walk me home?”

This, at least, is returned with a full-toothed smile. John nods. Spending time in Eliza’s company is invigorating, to say the least; the woman seems to radiate cheerful energy even in the grimmest of scenarios. Having her attention on John, undivided and sincere, is very much an improvement from the several months of merely watching her from behind the veil.

And so together, quietly, they make their way through the streets of New York City until their arrival at the Hamilton household comes near. With the building in sight, Eliza stops.

“John?” She asks. He nods, and he knows what she’s planning on asking. “Won’t you please join me inside? I’m sure my Hamilton would be delighted to see an old war friend.”

_Her Hamilton_. John shakes his head. _Her Hamilton._

Eliza sighs. “Very well. My home is just there. We’ll bid our goodbyes at the gate.”

The rest of the journey takes a short amount of time, though Eliza does keep up a steady stream of chatter which slows down their pace considerably. Her main topic of conversation is the dinner she has yet to prepare (likely a ploy to get John to stay, but he won’t, he won’t). The mood is different, though, and the air is thicker. As they move, John feels something between them shift like sands of an hourglass. Eliza’s grip on John is tight but comforting, and John feels he could live forever, taking walks in the night at Eliza’s side.

Then, however, they arrive. Eliza lets go of John’s arm, then turns to him.

“You keep yourself safe, understand? I’m not about to have you go off cold and hungry. If you need anything, ever, please do stop by.” Eliza’s look is of pity more than anything else. “Do you promise me?”

John takes her hands in his. His grip is strong, as is hers, and he gives them a shake as he nods. On the verge of tears, John notices, Eliza’s body relaxes and she sighs. Her brown eyes are bright, even in the darkness of the night.

“Thank you, John,” she says, and leans forward to give him a peck on the cheek. She is standing on her tip-toes, though would have been unable to reach if John hadn’t leant down to meet her lips. The kiss doesn’t linger more than two seconds, and John closes his eyes. Lips that are chapped from the wind and chill have never felt so comforting and warm. Opening his eyes slightly as Eliza pulls away, he sees that she, too, has her lids shut, lashes hovering delicately over the absolute top of her cheeks. John senses that the two of them have shared in this brief moment of uncanny bliss, even if they had only truly known one another for a brief time, and his heart breaks at the thought of the painful truth that he prays Eliza never has to see him again. 

In another life, perhaps, the kiss would not have been on the cheek.

“Will I ever see you again, John?” Eliza asks. Her voice is heavy, as are her eyes, and she knows the answer despite John’s noncommittal glance over her shoulder. “Goodbye.”

John lets go of her and lifts one hand.

“Thank you for walking me home. I’m not sure what would have happened to me otherwise.”

“ _You’re welcome_ ,” John mouths, for no sound comes out, and the face Eliza makes at his attempt is beautiful beyond words. And what she says is true, John reflects, for she can see him; and John is very much aware of the fact that by walking her home, he has saved her life.

Suddenly Eliza hugs him. He stumbles backwards, his arms at awkward angles and his eyes wide. With luck, John is able to catch himself. Managing to reciprocate the hug is another challenge, but he is eventually able to wrap his arms around Eliza’s back as she pulls him closer. For John, this action of attachment only confirms what he already knew; that while he might have somewhat of a romantic desire for her, the feeling of her clothed breasts against his chest made him more uncomfortable than anything else. Which is, of course, somewhat of a concern, or it would have been if this wasn’t Alexander’s wife. John doesn’t know what to make of these thoughts, nor what prompted them particularly, and lets them fly from his mind as Eliza pulls away.

As she does so, however, John is for a moment pulled forward by her dress. It seems that one of his vest-buttons had latched into the lace of her dress; but now, it has fallen off, and Eliza catches it in her palm before it falls to the gravel beneath their feet. Her mouth forms an “ _O_ ”, and she is about to speak when John manually wraps her fingers around the button. Her hands are cold under his own. The _keep it_ gesture is not lost on Eliza, and the two lock eyes for several seconds before she pulls away, turning her back towards John, opening the gate, and dashing inside the house.

John stands there for a good minute, staring after her, lost in his thoughts. _Elizabeth Hamilton._ Just John’s luck. He wonders, if Alexander were here with him, or rather if John was there with Alexander, he would make some joke about John’s draw to the family name. And of course, knowing Alexander, he definitely would.

To think of the devil was, as John had proven on too many an occasion, a toxic draw. The door of the Hamilton’s is thrown wide open, bright light flooding the darkness of the yard, and out comes Eliza, smile wide, followed by a very confused and tired-looking Alexander. Eliza looks around for a sign of John, and John’s heart skips a beat when her face falls.

“John?” She calls out. “Are you nearby?”

John steps forward, not waving, and makes his way to stand directly in front of Eliza. She takes no notice of him. _Good_.

Besides them, Alexander yawns. “I am beginning to believe you’ve made the entire game up. Why on earth would a Continental soldier be wandering around the city? The war’s over.”

Eliza humphs. “I promise you, Alex, he was very real. He told me his name was John Ball—I recognized the surname, it’s a South Carolinian family, my father has mentioned the line to me in the past—and that he served with you under George’s command. Surely you would recall him?”

“Ball?” Alexander repeats, and his gaze is far away. “That was John’s mother’s name, if I’m not mistaken. I was unaware of any relatives of his serving in the army.”

Eliza frowns. “I was unaware of this. Though, oh. Yes, thinking back, I suppose he did bear some resemblance to those portraits of your Laurens which you have shown me.”

They stand in the quiet for a minute.

“He gave me this,” Eliza says, holding out John’s button. “It fell off of his coat and he wished for me to keep it. I didn’t say anything, but his uniform was missing many buttons.”

Silent all but for his breathing, Alexander’s eyes dart to it for a second, then return to the grass. “Oh.”

Not failing to notice, Eliza continues. “I felt sorry for him. He looked so tired.”

Alexander moves closer to Eliza, places a hand on her shoulder. John can feel the intense heat radiating from his small frame. “How so?”

Eliza pauses. “I’m not entirely sure,” she begins, but seems to reconsider. “His eyes,” she says instead. “He looked like he’d been running - no, walking - his entire life, and every step he took gave me the impression that he intended on doing so for the rest of eternity.” She breathes deeply, and John wondered how the cold air felt settling in her lungs. “His eyes were green.”

In response, Alexander closes his own eyes. His body shakes as he inhales, breath deep, and John senses that he understands how important this last hour of Eliza’s life had been, though does not understand why. The death of sound in the conversation consumes them, their thoughts, their existence. Alexander laces his fingers through Eliza’s, rests his head on her shoulder. John wishes he was Alexander. John wishes he was Eliza.

“It’s cold, Betsey,” Alexander at last says. “Let’s go inside.”

“As you wish,” is the soft-spoken response. Eliza follows him back to the house, as does John, though she stops for a moment in the door to look back out at the street. Her eyes contain an emotion which John cannot quite name, though he understands it very well; it is the feeling of passing a beautiful stranger on the street without stopping to talk; the feeling of closing your eyes for a moment, and taking a chance at missing what may have been the most beautiful moment in the world. It is the feeling of never telling somebody that you love them and never finding out whether or not they ever loved you back. It is the feeling of reading a letter not intended for your eyes, between two people whom you’ve never met, and wondering what might have happened between and beyond the lines of ink on page.

John hates it, and Eliza hates it, and so together they walk inside, invisible to one another.


End file.
